


The Eclipse Parallax

by shehadtheryro



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, IM SORRY OKAY, M/M, a lot of sun and moon references, if ryan taught me anything is that if you wanna be trash you better be poetic about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 10:14:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8485447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shehadtheryro/pseuds/shehadtheryro
Summary: PARALLAX, [par-uh-laks]:
noun1. the apparent displacement of an observed object due to a change in the position of the observer.
Epic loves require epic coincidences to happen, again and again, for as long as there is a distance between the Sun and the Moon.
A few of the many times Ryan Ross has crossed Brendon Urie's path.





	

House parties were my scene. Always have been, always will be.

I've been called a certainty. A _mathematical_ certainty, by my engineer-to-be roommate, if we're being precise. Something that is bound to happen. "More sure than the Sun is to come up tomorrow, is Brendon Urie to come to this party", I believe to have been Gabe's exact words, some day. And he wasn't wrong in the slightest. I love the drinking, the dancing, the laughing, the _fucking_. Damn, I live for all that attention, that warmth, that brightness; You can always count on me to be surrounded by friends, acquaintances, making the entertainment wheel spin, and give life to any party. That's my job.

On this particularly evening, though, something on our small universe was thrown off balance. A taint on the big picture. A stranger.

And honest, it was a big deal. I'm in the middle of every social circle, every gathering, everything. I might not know all of the faces I warm up to, but a boy like him? I'd remember him. I would remember his face, the grey-to-black wardrobe, and the fact he was wearing a handkerchief so ridiculous it actually suited him. Soft brown eyes that showed no emotion whatsoever but deepness, little worn out leather satchel that was definitely a purse, and his delicate familiar lips.

I would definitely remember him.

So yeah, the universe being off balance, and it's the boy I can't stop making eye contact with.He sees me, of course he sees me. The entire party looks at me, I'm not exactly easy to miss. He sees me and his eyes are so obscured I can't bring myself to look away. I can't bring myself to move away. Me. The center of the damn Universe, and I'm being drawn to a fucking disturbance.Well, I have barely given it any thought when I see myself walking towards him.

 God's be damned.

 

"You are not from here" is the first thing I ever say to him. He doesn't pretend to be surprised; he'd seen me from before, and he followed me with heavy eyes all the way here.

"And you are" he concludes. His expression is not of curiosity, as I'm sure mine blasts to be. He is in such peace, and if I'm lucky, the single sparkle I captured on his eyes when he lifted his face to speak might as well be of interest.

 

So much for being the center of this universe.

 

"I'm Brendon. Brendon Urie."

He waits. He waits and I swear I could write full novels with the stories his silence is telling me.

"Hello Brendon Urie" he says, and the side smirk he gives me tells me that I just might, yes, be a little lucky. "My name is Ryan Ross"

 

I can only see him through the dancing lights that faithfully follow the music, but where we stand, it's quiet. Ryan Ross was patiently sitting in the furthest out from the heart of the party, and I hear nothing but him. If we were back at the center, I would probably still hear nothing but him.

Ryan respects our little moment, as if he comprehends how meaningful it is, and lazily gestures to the empty space beside him in the two-seater couch, which I am more than willing to occupy.

 

"Tell me, Brendon Urie, have you ever thought of the structures of early balls, and how people came to know one another?"

 

He turns his head to stare at me and well, in all fairness, that is not the weirdest small talk I've experienced. But the heaviness on his features assure me, Ryan Ross does not small talk.

 

"A lot of ceremonies," I say because it is true. From movies, and books, and any other scarce contact I've had with English balls and such, usually, a lot of time is wasted "You'd see someone stand out from across the room; you'd courtship them, but only with your eyes. Maybe not even that. You'd probably not get much more than a dance from them in one evening"

 

I don't know how it makes sense, but this talking - this talking he's got me doing -, works and I get why. His eyes are on me, and what he is not saying is right there for me to grasp. Ryan is asking me; he's asking me about courtship, and dancing and bonding and all of it, and he's asking me to skip it.

 

"A lot of wasted time, indeed" he agrees with a nod, "And time is something limited for the both of us"

"Why is that?"

"Think of this as a special day," he starts, and his voice is soothing as shy waves reaching for the shore in the morning "In ordinary circumstances, you and I wouldn't have met. You've said so yourself; I belong here the same much as you don't. It's a disturbance, and they never last long. They for sure don't happen twice."

 

A natural glitch. My own, natural and unique, glitch.

One and lonely.

 

"Why are you here?" I ask, because I do understand our time is limited. What it meant, though, I had no idea. There were thousands of possibilities as to why he was here on this specific party, and probably a thousand more why he wouldn't be back.

 

Ryan Ross was intense and he used words that made my mind race in spirals. He spoke in old scenarios as if our encounter was something bound to happen, and somehow, in all the craziness around our disturbance, he made me believe it.

 

"There is something in this house I needed to get" he mused on his choice of words for a few instants, and corrects himself "Something that I needed to steal"

 

His tone of voice is unswervingly calm, and I know he is not lying. Why would he?

 

"Did you get it?" it doesn't matter, really. He has his reasons, and he has chosen to be honest with me. It should matter, because this is Saporta family home, and Gabe is my best friend. Ryan moves his hand to slowly trace circles on my left thigh, and of course it doesn't matter.

"No, but I will soon enough" he assures me, and he is very precise with the confidence of his tone. I believe him, and again, it doesn't matter. His fingertips are tracing shooting stars on my skin and we don't have much time. We decide almost telepathically to change the subject. "Tell me, what are you chasing?"

 

And his eyes are on mine again. They mean so much and they knock the barrels of my mind down to dust. His eyes pierce right through my core, and if I stare too much I can't think at all. I couldn't lie to him even if I wanted to. And I know he feels the same. I start talking, and these are words that surprise me, because they never seemed so clear like they do when he is in front of me.

 

"Immortality. Glory. Legacy. In some way, I want the world to know I existed and that I left a mark. It doesn't have to be big, I just want to make a difference. I want people, decades from now, to recognize my existence, and acknowledge I did something worth remembering"

 

It flows from me like I've been expected to be asked such things. It's this thing he does, the light bite on the inside of his lower lips, that tells me how genuinely interested he is in what I have to say, and that breaks so many walls and layers of self-control over my own thoughts, that it would be scary, if it didn't feel so right.

Years and years of shallow conversations with supposed best friends, rehearsed words and meaningless laughter, from a lifetime of vain connections to this. Just a few minutes with Ryan Ross and it's not us talking anymore. It's our souls being intertwined.

He smiles, and my heart isn't mine anymore.

I move my hand over to his, and he takes it without question. I can feel electric rays, ions being exchanged through our palms, pieces of us rushing to connect.

 

"What about you, what are you running from?" I ask as I watch his skin on my skin, wondering just how I ever considered anything but this to be home. I know he's running because he has told me so. Not with words, but with looks and the promise of a short encounter. I know he's running because he always has been, and that's why we missed each other. I have him now because he stopped, but soon enough he'll run again and I'll fall behind.

 

Lonely events, really.

 

With his free hand, Ryan affectionately pats his satchel. "The ordinary. Whatever is expected of me; Whichever system you believe in, I've broken it, and it's after me because I pushed my way through. Whatever - whoever - stands between me and my passion, I'll push pass it, and I will keep pushing."

 

Ryan speaks and behind him I see so many more years than I believe he has. How old could he be? 23, 24? Surely not that older than me. But the weight in his words, they carry so much, and he has obviously lived a thousand lives. Surely a physical body meant nothing when you held the entire galaxy inside your eyes.

Ryan smiles at me again, and somehow I think he sees the same in mine.

 

"I have something I'd like to show you," he says, and the shock I feel from his hand leaving mine would leave lightning bolts to shame "no one has ever seen this, but you, Brendon Urie," he whimpers my name, and I hear my insides groan "you are my constant".

 

He then proceeds to open his bag, carefully retrieving a wooden rectangular box, of a very elegant crafting. Ryan slowly slides his hand on the top of it in such delicacy, and it's obvious just how much whatever he carries means to him. The forever running boy has a steady secret. And he is sharing it with me. His long fingers linger to open it, as if the suspense would somehow hold out the rest of the world.

_It did._

I am the constant, and Ryan is the one variable. This was our lapse in the universe, and it is shielded from any outside happenings. The house might as well catch on fire.

_It still did._

On the inside, a black velvet stuffing is the measured home to seven tiny glass cylinder vials, which one containing a different shade of silver, or gray, or black, glitter. Ryan tells me to chose one, and I do so. All the spaces have a designated identification. Codes.

_RIM-8._

_RIM-66._

_RGM-84 Harpoon_.

They all had similar names, but that was completely oblivious to it making any sense. I stared from the tiny container on my hand to the box where it belonged. "RIM-116 RAM", the empty space read.

 

"What are they?" I ask, carefully rolling my preferred tone of sparkly light silver glitter between my fingers.

Ryan waits; he doesn't need me to elaborate my curiosity and he doesn't look at me to oblige it. "Sea RAMs," he says with ease, "from the old US Navy".

 

_Rolling Airframe Missiles_.

It's not surprising - not that much. So far in the night, with what Ryan's told me, what he's said to me? No, it doesn't strike me at all. Of course he knows about the Navy, and of course he knows about destruction.

I get destruction. But why the Navy? It surely could be the Army, and the Hawks and Reapers Gabe told me all about from his Aeronautics class. Powerful machines, rushing through the sky and beyond - that's gotta be more exciting, right? Damn, he could have chosen rockets that could do so much more!

But no, Ryan Ross chose the Navy. The Old Navy, which had been in shut down for at least a century. This was the 24th century - nobody cared about the seas anymore. Was it the ocean? Was its vastness, its complexity and the thrill for the unknown? Maybe it was a passion for the horizon, and all the freedom that it brought? Or, perhaps it was personal - a family member lost at sea?

Ryan, Ryan, Ryan, _Ryan_.

There was so much of him. So many variables and so many possibilities, moods and shapes and seasons. So much wonder and yet, so little time.

The clock is ticking and he's slipping from my grasp.

I take another careful look at the vial on my hand, and by a split second, I see a sparkle that is harsher. It's in it, the thinnest of metals, which was so thoughtfully arranged to be mistaken by the glitter, that I'm surprised to see it. Ryan watches my every move as I return his most precious possession back to where it belonged. I wish I could muster the will to demand an explanation.

Why are you here? What do you want to steal? What are those metals?

But I know the answer to all of those things. Ryan - the variable - has told me.

Gabe comes from a family of military engineers. For generations, the Saportas have been providing weapons to our country, one level of mass destruction at a time. His parents worked on projects so secret they couldn't even tell one another about. So secret they had a vault built on this exact property, years before, when the Navy was still active. I've seen the door once, on the second layer of Gabe's basement.

We never had parties in this house. This was a special day. Gabe's parents were out of the country, and that rarely happens. They've left their son in charge and that is the first time ever we've thrown a party here. Ryan told me, we wouldn't have met in normal circumstances.

 

"I'm afraid, Brendon," he says in a silent voice that is loud enough to shatter glass "our time is running out"

 

He doesn't let me answer. In a second, he gives me the most painful smile I have ever seen, in the other, his hands slide over my nose and mouth, and he is blocking my air with a thick, dark fabric, and I breathe in without protest.

 

"This will weaken the effect, so you'll be alright" Ryan clarifies as he carefully lays my quickly numbing body in the sofa we shared. He runs his hand through my hair, and I feel calm facing the imminent chaos.

"Thank you for being mine, Brendon Urie, for the eternity of this evening" he whispers close to my face, and I feel his breath inside every gap of my soul "Generations will dream of the impact you've caused on me" he kisses me, and I can't think at all.

 

I see him retrieve a gas mask from his satchel, and what i believe to be a small metal container, with some most likely dangerous substance. He puts on the mask and then I can't see at all.

I can't feel at all.

 

* * *

 

 

It's been several hours, and the party is over. I'm sitting by myself on the porch of my own house, far away from the Saporta family home.

Thanks to Ryan, I woke up long before everyone else. Whatever gas he used, it was very effective. The entire party was passed out, cold on the hard floor. I remember people screaming, and running, and panic all around. I could almost see the irony in it. Panic. At a party. It did have style.

I managed to crawl myself out of the property soon enough and hide in the nearby woods to recover some sanity. I stood there and watched as people started waking up, and consequently freaking out, and patiently waited as ambulances, the police, and even de CIA came busting with all they've got, only to find out they were too late. They've missed him again. The forever running boy was back on the run.

Ryan Ross was wanted for arson, federal treason, patricide and felony murder.

George Ryan Ross the Third was his full name, I learned when we got interrogated about the night. I saw nothing, heard nothing. They didn't try to get much from us. One hundred and something college kids who were dosed on chloroform can only get you far enough, and at least half of us hadn't woken up yet. I knew for a fact a few of them never would.

By the end of the day, he might have committed mass murder.

I got a check up with one the rushing paramedics at the garden and labeled as "lucky" for not breathing in alarming quantities. _Lucky_.

A few other exams and ride from the local police later, here I stood. Holding in my hand the only physical memory of my one eternity. RIM-116 RAM. I've memorized it. Sometime after the gas, he placed it inside my pocket. The metal was gone, but the glitter wasn't. Ryan probably needed it, for whatever use he had on the projects and designs he successfully took.

It still didn't make much sense, why was it such a huge impact. We both felt it, we both knew it. Almost as if, lifetimes ago, we knew each other, and lifetimes ahead, we would again.

Lifetimes of me being his constant, waiting for his variable to meet me and leave me again. To put a turning point on whatever my universe was about before him.

What is the big deal about the Sun, anyway? The Sun is always there, nobody cares about the sun. It's reliable, dependable. It never changes, and it might even hide once in a while, but you can always trust it will be the same. The Sun has nothing to hide, it doesn't have a dark side.It doesn't have phases, it doesn't have moods, it doesn't have mystery _._

Yeah, the Sun is the center of our little universe, while the Moon is just some dead variable floating with no purpose.

But who cares? No decent musician or poet is pouring his heart into the joy and honesty of the fucking Sun.

And really, what's a lifetime of sunshine when only the dead touch of darkness can make you feel alive?


End file.
